While the porpoise bows his back in the air above the surface of the river, and spouts like the porpoise of the sea, small parties of seal whirl round and bark at us daringly. The seals are very small; not near so large as those we have seen on the river La Plata.
At 9 a. m., thermometer, 73°; wet bulb, 70°; river water, 75°. As we passed near the perpendicular bank a moderate-sized tree came down with a terrible crash just before us. The bank broke and the current washed away the earth, and we left the tree struggling with the river, which in time will either give way and follow us down, or stand stubborn as the foundation of another island.
We met with a fishing party of Indians in a canoe, with two women as cooks for twelve men. As we had been feasting on wild turkeys, ducks, and geese, we offered to purchase fish, but they were as much in want as we, and showed a disposition to keep at a distance—very likely on account of our cases of small-pox.
The river was so clear of snags and drift-wood that the men wanted to continue on all night, which promised to be clear, though the day was wet and unpleasant, with an easterly storm, which seemed rather to encourage the musquito tribe. We therefore had dinner cooked early.
After the sun went down the bright moon lit up our water-path through the wilds. The earth seemed asleep as we watched the nodding Indians at their paddles, which hung dripping over the sides of the canoe. At one moment a rustling noise was heard among the canes. We swept close in towards the bank by the current. The burning piece of wood which the old captain kept on his part of the boat disturbed the black tiger, or a serpent slipped softly from a cluster of canes into the water to avoid us. As we turn, the moon shines directly up the river, and the sheet of water appears like a silvery way. We think of obstructions, and fear we are not going fast enough to see the glad waters of the Atlantic.
By Lieut. L. Gibbon U. S. N.
Lith. of P.S. Duval & Co. Phil.
DESCENDING THE RIVER MAMORÉ, Bolivia.